It's another long haul journey. My first plan had been an east-west bus ride across Nepal to reach the Kumaon region of northern India. However, the absence or cancellation of buses means I have to retrace my steps back to Sounali and across to Delhi before heading north to the mountains.
The bus to the border and the crossing a pretty uneventful. Immediately on arrival a man with paan-stained teeth asks if I need a taxi to Gorakhpur station, he can get me there in two hours. Jammed into the boot seat of a four-by-four I quickly lose feeling in my left foot as my legs are entangled with those of the three other passengers, the four of us stuffed into a space meant for two (if meant for anyone at all!).
Afternoon debates
Fat as a pancake
Takhyil Peace Cafe is a very serene place to watch the world go by, which is pretty good really because after trying one of their pancakes I'm assaulted by a ton of carbohydrates so much so that I can barely move and want to fall asleep. They're plate-sized and more than an inch thick with huge chunks of apple, banana and papaya inside. I spend my time reading Jared Diamond's 'Guns germs and steel' which attempts to make sense of why Europeans conquered the South Americans and not the other way round, apparently it has a lot to with cows and latitudinal versus longitudinal axes.
Vashisht
Should that be hashisht? There's a haze of charas smoke in almost every cafe in this inert little hillside village a few kilometres from the razzmatazz of Manali, India's premier mountain retreat and honeymooning destination. I only stay for a day or so, just long enough to book a busride to Ladakh, meet a couple of Scandinavian socialists, and visit the Habimda temple.
Manali to Leh
The road from Manali to Leh is something of a traveller's rite of passage, a two day 485km journey climbing up through the Himalayas and passing over the second highest road in the world (the highest awaiting in Leh), on a rickety bus bouncing along rough stone passes, bending around mountain-sides with steep falls and scree slopes with a tendency towards landslides.
The Rohtang Pass is a notorious stretch for accidents and according to the guidebook the name literally means "piles of dead bodies".
Taglang La, 5360m, is the highest point on the planet on which I've stood. Fortunately I don't experience AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) but my head feels a bit of dizzy as we take a short break to admire the surroundings. Around 6pm we arrive in Leh, the final stretch of the journey passing by straw fields and patches of green trees overhanging streams, all warmed by the bright yellow glow of a setting sun. We're here at last and certainly it feels like an accomplishment as fellow passengers smile and bod to one another. It's surprising how adventurous it feels and what a sense of achievement considering our part involved little more than sitting down for 36 hours.
Palu Guesthouse
Pink-purple, white, orange and yellow flowers surround the garden chairs and table set below a homemade canopy. It's 9.30am and I sit down to munch toast and drain a milky sweet coffee. The guesthouse is off Changspa Road and away from the noisier areas of town, so the only sounds are the murmurings of people strolling along the streets and the bees going about their tasks in what seems to be an unhurried manner. Over the next few days I spend most mornings and some afternoons sitting here, reading Nehru's 'Discovery of India' and playing long games of chess against an Italian man called Romano, who supports Milan but I manage not to hold it against him.
The Ladakh Festival runs for two weeks from the 1st of September. It's essentially engineered to extend the tourist season before the cold weather kicks in towards the end of the month and roads become impassable for the winter. The parade through town involves local people and school-kids dressed in 'traditional costumes'. The people involved look a little disconcerted, like this is not a particularly genuine gathering, and they aren't helped by a mass of amateur photographers, dressed in khaki or safari gear, sporting sunburnt legs and often with more than one camera lens dangling below one their chins, all jostling to get right in their faces to take snaps (what's the collective noun for such a group? a 'skidmark' perhaps? ... based on all the stumbling around). Robbie's assessment that the parade was 'rubbish' was perhaps a bit harsh. In the afternoon, I join Kevin and Robbie, the two guys from Scotland, to climb up to the gompa above Leh palace. Sitting atop of the gompa gives us an impressive panorama view of Leh and the Himalayan mountains in the distance.
'The Bastards'
couple and The summit attempt would have to begin in the early hours with 4-5 hours before sunrise so thesnow would be firm enough. Our simple map photocopied from a guidebook and laminated in Leh showed that it was a steep climb up a ridge and the following a rough path before crossing a glacial morain riddled with large crevasses (perhaps it should be renamed the New Labour pass?) A dangerous prospect in the dark without a guide therefore an important task was to findsome who had a guide and follow them. We found a guide who was going to lead a middle-agedwilling to allow us to tag along provided his clients agreed. Although we offered a payment they refused saying they did not want to be responsible for our climbing as they did not know how fit we were. Therefore they immediately got given the tag 'the bastards'. Thismight seem a little unreasonable but they would go on to earn this and other stronger terms.
Undeterred, we'd found out they were setting off at 1am so we reckoned on being able simply to follow them at a convenient distance so as to see the route they took. However, waking at 12.30am we could make out lights on the ridge, 'the bastards' had set off early! Fixing headtorches we set off to catch up what was probably a 30minute start. Aviv took the lead and showed deft skills tracking over rocky terrain where the footprints in the snow can disappear for metres at a time. Fortunately it doesn't snow much as zig-zag across the glacier following the deep-tred bootmarks. The next ascent towards the summit ridge is a steep scree-slope which certainly seemed the most dangerous and scary as we scrambled upwards.
It's a slow process with temperatures at minus 10-15 degrees and although bodies are warm all the extremities are bitterly cold as toes and fingers have long since gone numb. It's harder to breathe and stops become more frequent as Alex especially is gasping short-breaths and has mild nausea.
Confirmed! The headlights above us are descending. Having tracked them for almost 5 hours 'the bastards' seem to be descending, but why? They couldn't have reached the summit yet. They're near now and passing below us about 30 yards to the left. Without shouting we attempt to hail them. Raising voices we get a reply after five attempts from their guide who says it's too dangerous to reach the summit as it is whited-out with a wind and snow storm. Proving they deserve their title, the two climbers with him had obviously seen our lights, knew we hadn't a guide and yet were prepared to allow us to continue without any warning... bastards!!!!
After a conference we decide on descending to base camp. As if to reward our sensible decision the falling snow becomes less and turning around the sunrise yawns and casts a reddish glow across the peaks which brightens the skies quickly, dotted with orange and yellow clouds, a revealing the contours of the peaks and the glacier. Descending in the first-light is much easier and we're all happier despite not achieving the peak. We all find more energy as we retrace our steps, surprised at the terrain that looks so different now and marvelling at how much distance we covered. A sense of achievement replaces the cold and weary thoughts as we reckon to have reached above 5,900m maybe even 6,000m. It's been a tough climb but we've survived it without succumbing to the cold or any serious AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), although photographic evidence suggests we may have had some mild dozes.
Back at Base Camp Anders takes it upon himself to express our collective distaste at the selfish climbers who seem pretty uncomfortable with his articulate and sarcastic comments delivere with a dry Scandinavian accent, "I just want to say thank-you for all the support and help you have given us, especially for considering the safety of fellow climbers and warning us of the dangerous conditions, thank-you" (either that or they couldn't work out if he was being serious)
Back at base camp we sleep from 9am to 11am before the long downhill journey back to Stok, which can be done in an afternoon, to catch the 6pm bus back to Leh.
The bus to the border and the crossing a pretty uneventful. Immediately on arrival a man with paan-stained teeth asks if I need a taxi to Gorakhpur station, he can get me there in two hours. Jammed into the boot seat of a four-by-four I quickly lose feeling in my left foot as my legs are entangled with those of the three other passengers, the four of us stuffed into a space meant for two (if meant for anyone at all!).
It also becomes apparent that the two guys running the operation are a little hazy on directions as they have to stop and ask a few times. I'm told the short cuts are to avoid the main bridge which will be hectic and also any police checkpoints. We end up getting stopped three times and because the driver has no papers or driving licence we have to wait whilst they negotiate the charitable contribution they will make. The stout police officer with dark patches under his arms scratches his nuts pensively with one hand whilst cupping his jowl with the other. Deciding it's not worth the hassle he settles for a 200 rupees payment. Dismissing them with a flick of the head, he pulls his belt up to get a better purchase and sets about tackling his persistent itch.
With a unreserved ticket that took me 40 minutes to get I set my rucksack down on platform 5 to wait for the Delhi train which will arrive at midnight. Boys scavenge the platform looking for plastic bottles. Wearing oversized shirts tied around their waists and tucked into their pants, bottles are stuffed under their armpits and collected in the bulge at the back causing each to look like a hunchback as they wander up and down the platform and along the sleepers.
The train inches into Old Delhi station and finally grinds to a halt at 4.30pm. By 5.30pm, 36 hours after leaving Pokhara I'm back at Hare Krishna guesthouse to book a seat on the sleeper bus for the next day to Dharamasala.
Dharamasala
The home-in-exile of the Dali Lama, this north Indian town is a popular destination for travellers, devotees and pilgrims, and also hosts a significant population of Tibetan refugees. The sleeper bus pulls in around 8.30am and it's shared taxi ride up the hill to the McLeod Ganj settlement area where most of the guesthouses are located. Rather than stay in the immediate area I follow the guidebooks advice and head a bit further along the road to Bhagsu village. In the pouring rain I find Zilon Kagyeling Monastery. It has very simple rooms with beds and not much else, but it is clean and the balcony walkways look out over the hillside.
A smiley monk appears, he is the 'manager'. He welcomes me and asks my name and where I'm from. He seems friendly and later I'll discover he has a good sense of humour when after a couple of days he asks "how long you stay?" I tell him "maybe for another couple of days, until Friday evening if that's ok?" He looks at me with a completely earnest and concerned expression and says "No, no that's not ok" and leaves it just long enough for me to begin fumbling a response "oh, er... I..." before roaring with laughter and saying "no problem" walking away chuckling to himself probably more in surprise than anything else that the old chestnut worked.
Free Tibet?
At the Tibetan Welfare Office a recently filmed documentary is shown called 'Team Tibet' following the attempts by a group of campaigners to organise and send a national squad to the 2008 Bejing Olympics. It includes a series of interviews with leading figures of the Free Tibet movement based in McLeod Ganj and various awareness raising stunts and efforts including unfurling a banner at Everest Base Camp and on the Great Wall of China, as well as a football match played in Delhi. Despite having a large audience for viewing there was disappointingly little debate afterwards about any of the issues raised by, not least about how this would affect the freedom struggle.
With a unreserved ticket that took me 40 minutes to get I set my rucksack down on platform 5 to wait for the Delhi train which will arrive at midnight. Boys scavenge the platform looking for plastic bottles. Wearing oversized shirts tied around their waists and tucked into their pants, bottles are stuffed under their armpits and collected in the bulge at the back causing each to look like a hunchback as they wander up and down the platform and along the sleepers.
The train inches into Old Delhi station and finally grinds to a halt at 4.30pm. By 5.30pm, 36 hours after leaving Pokhara I'm back at Hare Krishna guesthouse to book a seat on the sleeper bus for the next day to Dharamasala.
DharamasalaThe home-in-exile of the Dali Lama, this north Indian town is a popular destination for travellers, devotees and pilgrims, and also hosts a significant population of Tibetan refugees. The sleeper bus pulls in around 8.30am and it's shared taxi ride up the hill to the McLeod Ganj settlement area where most of the guesthouses are located. Rather than stay in the immediate area I follow the guidebooks advice and head a bit further along the road to Bhagsu village. In the pouring rain I find Zilon Kagyeling Monastery. It has very simple rooms with beds and not much else, but it is clean and the balcony walkways look out over the hillside.
A smiley monk appears, he is the 'manager'. He welcomes me and asks my name and where I'm from. He seems friendly and later I'll discover he has a good sense of humour when after a couple of days he asks "how long you stay?" I tell him "maybe for another couple of days, until Friday evening if that's ok?" He looks at me with a completely earnest and concerned expression and says "No, no that's not ok" and leaves it just long enough for me to begin fumbling a response "oh, er... I..." before roaring with laughter and saying "no problem" walking away chuckling to himself probably more in surprise than anything else that the old chestnut worked.
Free Tibet?
At the Tibetan Welfare Office a recently filmed documentary is shown called 'Team Tibet' following the attempts by a group of campaigners to organise and send a national squad to the 2008 Bejing Olympics. It includes a series of interviews with leading figures of the Free Tibet movement based in McLeod Ganj and various awareness raising stunts and efforts including unfurling a banner at Everest Base Camp and on the Great Wall of China, as well as a football match played in Delhi. Despite having a large audience for viewing there was disappointingly little debate afterwards about any of the issues raised by, not least about how this would affect the freedom struggle.
The Tsug Lakhang temple contains impressive mandalas and statues surrounded by votive offerings of food oils and money. Outside in the courtyard the monks are paired off to debate. Whilst topics and issues may vary the actual ritual of debate follows fairly consistent patterns only slightly embellished by the idiosyncratic movements of individuals. One monk sits whilst another paces before them and putting an argument or statement to them they make a step towards and clap their hands together as thought the dramatic movement emphasises the point to elicit a response or is intended to stir the mind.
As I'm sitting on a bench overlooking the courtyard a middle-aged monk sits down beside me and smiles. He is holding a thermos flask and unscrewing the lid pours himself a cup. He also ponders the scene for about 5 minutes and then reaching inside his crimson robe produces a very new looking Nokia phone and starts fiddling about texting and playing games. Ah the ascetic life!
Fat as a pancake
Takhyil Peace Cafe is a very serene place to watch the world go by, which is pretty good really because after trying one of their pancakes I'm assaulted by a ton of carbohydrates so much so that I can barely move and want to fall asleep. They're plate-sized and more than an inch thick with huge chunks of apple, banana and papaya inside. I spend my time reading Jared Diamond's 'Guns germs and steel' which attempts to make sense of why Europeans conquered the South Americans and not the other way round, apparently it has a lot to with cows and latitudinal versus longitudinal axes.
Vashisht
Should that be hashisht? There's a haze of charas smoke in almost every cafe in this inert little hillside village a few kilometres from the razzmatazz of Manali, India's premier mountain retreat and honeymooning destination. I only stay for a day or so, just long enough to book a busride to Ladakh, meet a couple of Scandinavian socialists, and visit the Habimda temple.
According to the guidebook, Habimda is Hirma Devi, wife of Bhima and considered to be a 16th Century incarnation of Kali. The temple is a three-tiered pagoda, wooden with ghoulish looking carvings, mounted ibex skulls, and a glowing red inner-sanctum area where people leave offerings. As ever, there is a bell hung above the door-archway to announce your presence.
I circle round the outside of the building and sit down on the simple stone bench to the side, daydreaming for a moment. As I do a short and rotund woman arrives holding a flapping chicken upside-down by it's legs. She's accompanied by a younger man, possibly her son, who is carrying a hatchet. She holds the chicken across a wooden block and with one blow the young man decapitates it. She quickly takes the body which has begun to spurt blood and sprinkles it against the temple walls. The darker stained patches suggest this is not an uncommon event. I'm still trying to work out if this is a sacrifice or they're intending to eat the chicken for dinner and thought they'd kill two birds with one stone (sorry!). As I get up to leave one of the stray dogs that are hanging around steals up to the chopping block, snatches the chicken's head still laying there and scurries off appearing to swallow it whole on the run. I think I'll go back to the guesthouse and lie down...
Manali to LehThe road from Manali to Leh is something of a traveller's rite of passage, a two day 485km journey climbing up through the Himalayas and passing over the second highest road in the world (the highest awaiting in Leh), on a rickety bus bouncing along rough stone passes, bending around mountain-sides with steep falls and scree slopes with a tendency towards landslides.
The Rohtang Pass is a notorious stretch for accidents and according to the guidebook the name literally means "piles of dead bodies".
Having negotiated the precarious navigation of high altitude rocky roads in the late evening we enter a valley plateau, passing through a moonlit otherworldly landscape, reflections of stars bouncing across the uneven ripples of the river. The valley walls shaped by the elements morph into recognisable shapes like a crowd of giant and slender beings reached towards the skies, waving us on.
Despite assurances from the ticket seller of a fixed price, the camp-site offers dingy tents at more than double the cost. I find allies in two medical students from Scotland and we decide to sleep on the bus. It's definitely false economy but and interesting experience wearing virtually all the clothes I've got, huddled on a poorly padded seat with irregular frosty blasts of ice-cold air piercing my multi-layered protection.
Taglang La, 5360m, is the highest point on the planet on which I've stood. Fortunately I don't experience AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) but my head feels a bit of dizzy as we take a short break to admire the surroundings. Around 6pm we arrive in Leh, the final stretch of the journey passing by straw fields and patches of green trees overhanging streams, all warmed by the bright yellow glow of a setting sun. We're here at last and certainly it feels like an accomplishment as fellow passengers smile and bod to one another. It's surprising how adventurous it feels and what a sense of achievement considering our part involved little more than sitting down for 36 hours.
Palu Guesthouse Pink-purple, white, orange and yellow flowers surround the garden chairs and table set below a homemade canopy. It's 9.30am and I sit down to munch toast and drain a milky sweet coffee. The guesthouse is off Changspa Road and away from the noisier areas of town, so the only sounds are the murmurings of people strolling along the streets and the bees going about their tasks in what seems to be an unhurried manner. Over the next few days I spend most mornings and some afternoons sitting here, reading Nehru's 'Discovery of India' and playing long games of chess against an Italian man called Romano, who supports Milan but I manage not to hold it against him.
The Ladakh Festival runs for two weeks from the 1st of September. It's essentially engineered to extend the tourist season before the cold weather kicks in towards the end of the month and roads become impassable for the winter. The parade through town involves local people and school-kids dressed in 'traditional costumes'. The people involved look a little disconcerted, like this is not a particularly genuine gathering, and they aren't helped by a mass of amateur photographers, dressed in khaki or safari gear, sporting sunburnt legs and often with more than one camera lens dangling below one their chins, all jostling to get right in their faces to take snaps (what's the collective noun for such a group? a 'skidmark' perhaps? ... based on all the stumbling around). Robbie's assessment that the parade was 'rubbish' was perhaps a bit harsh. In the afternoon, I join Kevin and Robbie, the two guys from Scotland, to climb up to the gompa above Leh palace. Sitting atop of the gompa gives us an impressive panorama view of Leh and the Himalayan mountains in the distance.Stok Kangri ascent (or how we nearly got to 6000m)
In a small, crumbling roadside cafe a shop in the early evening of 5 September 2007, a rag-tag group of travellers huddle around a table covered with a fading laminate cloth, sitting on unsteady plastic garden chairs, and swigging down spicy chai. Spirits are high with excitement as we discuss the preparations for attempting to climb Stok Kangri, a 6135m Himalayan mountain only 20km from Leh.
With a little asking around sleeping bags and an additional tent are hired together with crampons. The morning bus leaves at 8am and we'll be on it. The air is crisp and with only a hint of cloud pretty soon we're warming up as the bus trundles towards the village of Stok where we'll begin our trek to base camp.
The valley is lush with trees and bushes and a scattered river flowing between boulders and pebbles left from years of glacier melting. From Stok we'll hike about 6-7 hours to about 4450m and set up camp for the night besides a tee-pee style tea-tent. The gap-toothed man grins as he pours parafin into a small stove and cooks up Maggi (the ubiquitous packet noodles), dal and rice, followed by sweet milk chai. His home is a stone shack built close into the hillside. Full and tired we nestle into the two, three-man tents for an early bed-time. It's a cold, cold night and I guess we're all thankful for the extra warmth from sleeping alongside someone.
The morning of Day Two we have our first casualty. Mark decides he is under-equipped to continue having shivered all night in the tent without much sleep. There's a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him but fact is he's not got any pants only shorts and long-johns and wearing puma trainers. Now five we set off after a similar breakfast of Maggi and chai to reach the base camp.
Anders is suffering with the runs which slows us considerably, however the journey only takes 3 hours. Luck doesn't seem to be with us today as we find that the tea tent has closed as the season is nearng an end. Without carrying many supplies we're looking forward to surviving on a few sugary biscuits and cold tsampa (a kind of barley porridge). However, Anders asks around amongst the dozen or so other trekkers and manages to locate snacks and the promise of some cooked food later from some generous campers. Our evening meal consists of a littl pasta with white sauce, three slices of pizza, some kofta, corn and nut snacks shared between us. It's not really a full meal but we wolf it down and save a few chocolate biscuits for the summit attempt.
With a little asking around sleeping bags and an additional tent are hired together with crampons. The morning bus leaves at 8am and we'll be on it. The air is crisp and with only a hint of cloud pretty soon we're warming up as the bus trundles towards the village of Stok where we'll begin our trek to base camp.
The valley is lush with trees and bushes and a scattered river flowing between boulders and pebbles left from years of glacier melting. From Stok we'll hike about 6-7 hours to about 4450m and set up camp for the night besides a tee-pee style tea-tent. The gap-toothed man grins as he pours parafin into a small stove and cooks up Maggi (the ubiquitous packet noodles), dal and rice, followed by sweet milk chai. His home is a stone shack built close into the hillside. Full and tired we nestle into the two, three-man tents for an early bed-time. It's a cold, cold night and I guess we're all thankful for the extra warmth from sleeping alongside someone.
The morning of Day Two we have our first casualty. Mark decides he is under-equipped to continue having shivered all night in the tent without much sleep. There's a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him but fact is he's not got any pants only shorts and long-johns and wearing puma trainers. Now five we set off after a similar breakfast of Maggi and chai to reach the base camp.
Anders is suffering with the runs which slows us considerably, however the journey only takes 3 hours. Luck doesn't seem to be with us today as we find that the tea tent has closed as the season is nearng an end. Without carrying many supplies we're looking forward to surviving on a few sugary biscuits and cold tsampa (a kind of barley porridge). However, Anders asks around amongst the dozen or so other trekkers and manages to locate snacks and the promise of some cooked food later from some generous campers. Our evening meal consists of a littl pasta with white sauce, three slices of pizza, some kofta, corn and nut snacks shared between us. It's not really a full meal but we wolf it down and save a few chocolate biscuits for the summit attempt. couple and The summit attempt would have to begin in the early hours with 4-5 hours before sunrise so thesnow would be firm enough. Our simple map photocopied from a guidebook and laminated in Leh showed that it was a steep climb up a ridge and the following a rough path before crossing a glacial morain riddled with large crevasses (perhaps it should be renamed the New Labour pass?) A dangerous prospect in the dark without a guide therefore an important task was to findsome who had a guide and follow them. We found a guide who was going to lead a middle-agedwilling to allow us to tag along provided his clients agreed. Although we offered a payment they refused saying they did not want to be responsible for our climbing as they did not know how fit we were. Therefore they immediately got given the tag 'the bastards'. Thismight seem a little unreasonable but they would go on to earn this and other stronger terms.
Undeterred, we'd found out they were setting off at 1am so we reckoned on being able simply to follow them at a convenient distance so as to see the route they took. However, waking at 12.30am we could make out lights on the ridge, 'the bastards' had set off early! Fixing headtorches we set off to catch up what was probably a 30minute start. Aviv took the lead and showed deft skills tracking over rocky terrain where the footprints in the snow can disappear for metres at a time. Fortunately it doesn't snow much as zig-zag across the glacier following the deep-tred bootmarks. The next ascent towards the summit ridge is a steep scree-slope which certainly seemed the most dangerous and scary as we scrambled upwards.It's a slow process with temperatures at minus 10-15 degrees and although bodies are warm all the extremities are bitterly cold as toes and fingers have long since gone numb. It's harder to breathe and stops become more frequent as Alex especially is gasping short-breaths and has mild nausea.
Confirmed! The headlights above us are descending. Having tracked them for almost 5 hours 'the bastards' seem to be descending, but why? They couldn't have reached the summit yet. They're near now and passing below us about 30 yards to the left. Without shouting we attempt to hail them. Raising voices we get a reply after five attempts from their guide who says it's too dangerous to reach the summit as it is whited-out with a wind and snow storm. Proving they deserve their title, the two climbers with him had obviously seen our lights, knew we hadn't a guide and yet were prepared to allow us to continue without any warning... bastards!!!!
After a conference we decide on descending to base camp. As if to reward our sensible decision the falling snow becomes less and turning around the sunrise yawns and casts a reddish glow across the peaks which brightens the skies quickly, dotted with orange and yellow clouds, a revealing the contours of the peaks and the glacier. Descending in the first-light is much easier and we're all happier despite not achieving the peak. We all find more energy as we retrace our steps, surprised at the terrain that looks so different now and marvelling at how much distance we covered. A sense of achievement replaces the cold and weary thoughts as we reckon to have reached above 5,900m maybe even 6,000m. It's been a tough climb but we've survived it without succumbing to the cold or any serious AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), although photographic evidence suggests we may have had some mild dozes.Back at Base Camp Anders takes it upon himself to express our collective distaste at the selfish climbers who seem pretty uncomfortable with his articulate and sarcastic comments delivere with a dry Scandinavian accent, "I just want to say thank-you for all the support and help you have given us, especially for considering the safety of fellow climbers and warning us of the dangerous conditions, thank-you" (either that or they couldn't work out if he was being serious)
Back at base camp we sleep from 9am to 11am before the long downhill journey back to Stok, which can be done in an afternoon, to catch the 6pm bus back to Leh.
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